


Name of the Wind

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e21 Many Happy Returns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese comes back from Mexico still trying to sort out his feelings.  But he only knows one way to do that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name of the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is what happens when I watch "Many Happy Returns" too many times. Oh, the Feels.
> 
> Also, it kinda got away from me. Like, it wanted to leave and join the circus on its own or something. : )

Name of the Wind

_I hope you now fully appreciate why I couldn’t tell you about Sarah’s case._

_I hope you now understand why you should have._

*************************************************************

After meeting with Finch by the bridge, and then discovering that Finch’s little birthday gift for him is (with typically oversized generosity) an entire gorgeous _loft_ _apartment_ , Reese is a bit overwhelmed.  He’s not sure which took more out of him:  his long drive to Mexico, or his really short but intense talk with Finch on the park bench afterwards.  But he’s tired, wrung out, which makes no sense, because he hasn’t done anything more strenuous than drive in several days.  He also feels edgy and unsettled, a strange combination. 

The edginess prevails.  Ignoring his weariness, he wanders around his large, sparsely furnished apartment for a bit, checking it all out, admiring the view.  But after a few minutes, that makes him feel strange too.  The place is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like it belongs to him yet.  Looking it over makes him feel like he’s checking it out as a possible safe house for Finch or something.  Not that Finch has ever asked him to do that of course, but still.

Finch hasn’t called him with a new number yet, either.  So after Reese has checked out every room in his new place (and discovered a big closet that'll be the perfect place to store his arsenal), he gives up and leaves.  He starts walking with no specific destination in mind, just trying to walk off his restlessness, force himself to wind down. 

His mind keeps going back to his talk with Finch by the bridge.

_Did you know?  Was she one of those numbers that came up again and again?_

_What I know Mr. Reese, is that New Rochelle happened before we started working together.  And because of that, there was nothing either of us could’ve done._

Nothing, nothing, nothing…  The word fills Reese’s head, an icy, empty refrain he’s sadly familiar with.  _Nothing_ he could’ve done when he’d learned of Jessica’s death.  _Nothing_ he can do about it now.  _Nothing_ was the name of the cold wind that’d started blowing through the holes in the battered soul of the man he’d become after she died.  

 _Nothing_ was all he’d had left then. 

Things are different now.  Still, despite his long black coat he feels that wind again, nipping coldly at his back as he walks silently down the street.  He always feels its bite whenever Jessica’s name is mentioned, and this latest number filled his head with memories of her.  But he tries not to shiver or let that cold wind harry him now, because it's part of his past.  _Nothing_ is no longer all he has. 

Far from it.  Angry though he's been with him lately, it doesn't change the fact that he has Finch now.  He may be small in stature, but he looms so large in Reese’s life that he’s changed almost everything.  In lesser ways, Reese has Carter and Fusco, too.  Thanks to Finch, now he even has an apartment all his own.  A huge, well-lit, beautiful apartment with a king-sized bed and a view of one of his favorite parks.  But that view's not a coincidence, and for a few seconds, he lets himself get angry because Finch has obviously been surveilling him even in his free time, when he’s supposed to be able to relax and have some privacy.  That fizzles out quickly though, because he's been following Finch in his free time, too.

Besides, it's hard to hold petty grudges when someone's just given you a beautiful Manhattan loft with a view.  And if Reese instinctively wants to block out sniper angles by covering its large windows with dark curtains, and wonders what he'll do with all that empty space, those are just minor things he'll deal with in time.  What matters is that no one has ever given him such an enormous, expensive gift for his birthday; and that Finch didn't do it to impress, but to give him a home.  A place where he belongs.

But Finch must know he's already done that.  Thanks to him, the abandoned library where they work has come to feel more like home to Reese than any other place has in years.  His new apartment isn't the first, it's just the latest in a series of gifts from Finch.  He's given Reese so much since they started working together, it's staggering.  The more so, Reese thinks, because most of his gifts were intangible.  Things that not even Finch's vast wealth could buy.  Reese now has a partner he trusts.  Work that challenges and absorbs and puts him back together, bit by bit.  The chance to save people, to help rather than kill them.  Friends, loyalty, hope, a purpose, more time than he thought he’d have, and now a beautiful place he hopes will soon feel like home.  So many things he thought he’d never have again.  So much more than he deserves.  Not to mention lots of money.  It's the gift John values the least, but Finch has been typically generous with that, too.

Yet somewhere inside Reese, where no one else can hear, something still snarls, raging at things he can’t change. 

Dumping Jennings off at that Mexican prison helped, but even that hadn't soothed his fury completely.  Reese isn't sure what will.  He used to drink to dull his anger, but he's not stupid enough to start down that road again.

Since sleep isn’t possible with rage still prowling inside him, he keeps walking, trying to edge out the darkness of his past with thoughts of his brighter present.  That loft apartment is the first place that’s been his since – well, you can’t count base housing, and nothing in the C.I.A. was ever permanent -- so really, since the apartment he’d lived in briefly after high school, before he joined the Army.  That seems so long ago now, it’s like another life.  Or something that happened to someone else.  A time of hope and innocence that Reese only heard about in a story.  He’s been a transient for so long, so unused to the notion of any kind of permanent residence, he’s not sure he’s really been able to absorb what having one means yet.

He’s had other things on his mind.

The rage inside him churns slowly, sluggish now and turning cold instead of hot, but still there.  Far from gone.  He’d thought that driving all the way to Mexico with that wife-beating piece of shit Jennings safely stowed away in his trunk would be good for him.  It would give him time to let go of the white-hot fury that ignited in his chest when he’d learned that Finch was working a number without him -- and worse, that Finch had lied to him about it, though he’d promised he’d never do that.  Instead, those long days and nights behind the wheel, with no one to talk to and Jennings a mute, angry weight cuffed and gagged in his trunk, just left Reese feeling sullen and betrayed.  He hates being lied to, no matter the reason.  And he had too much time on that long drive to brood about Finch's lie.

Still, even though he'd been mad at him, he'd missed having Harold's voice in his ear all the time, while he was away.  Talk about being conflicted.

_Finch, are you there?_

He'd tried to concentrate on Sarah Atkins while he drove instead.  The enormous relief he'd seen on her face when he'd told her she could go, that her nightmare was finally over now.  She'd fled like a bird blown aloft by the last, faint echo of a passing storm.  He liked thinking of her that way, like a beautiful bird he and Finch had finally set free.  He wondered where she'd land, and if she'd be happy.  At least he’d given her a chance to find happiness now. 

But thinking of birds makes his thoughts inevitably circle back to the one he’s pissed off at.

Finch lied to him.  Finch hadn’t trusted him.  Finch had sent Carter after him like he’d gone rogue, or lost his mind or something. 

_Did I?_

It wouldn't be the first time.  Looking back on it, Reese thinks his first break with reality happened on his way back home from Mexico after the twin towers crumbled and somehow in their wake, the happy future he planned had, too.  That was his first moment of insanity -- when he first thought of leaving Jessica.

Images of her tumble through his mind, bright shards of broken glass from his once golden, now shattered past.  Lost but forever beautiful.

_Was she one of them?  One of those numbers that came up again and again?_

His rage stirs, frozen ice cracking and shifting uneasily under his skin.  _Did Finch know she was in danger?_

Before they'd talked on that bench earlier, he hadn't been thinking rationally about that.  Once Finch confessed that battered women's numbers  had come up repeatedly before they'd met, and that it’d taken him awhile to understand what those numbers meant, Reese’s mind had instantly leapt to the terrible conclusion that Jessica might've been one of them.  That Finch might’ve had a chance to save her, if he’d figured things out faster and acted.  The idea had lacerated him, obliterating reason.  The idea that Jessica could’ve lived if Finch had only done something about her number had haunted Reese, shredding his self control, fueling his anger. 

But once they talked, that knot of pain and anger unraveled.  Finch was right.  Since Jessica died before they'd even met, even if her number had come up more than once, Harold couldn't have saved her on his own.  He didn't have the skills.  And though he hadn’t said so, Reese was guessing he'd been injured by then as well. 

As he walks along still sorting it all out, that part of it now seems crystal clear.  Thinking his partner could've saved her was wrong and unfair to Finch.  He rolls his shoulders, feeling the tension in them ease.  Okay, maybe he's still a little angry with him, but not about that anymore.  He's still pissed off about the lie, but he's not blaming Finch for not saving Jessica, too.  He knows Finch now, and despite all of his secrecy, his efforts at maintaining distance between them, Reese knows that behind Harold's formality and reserve beats a good heart. 

A better heart than his own.  Now that they've talked, Reese realizes that Finch would've saved her if he could.  Look how hard he'd tried to help Sarah Atkins.

_I shouldn't have doubted Finch about that._

But that's not all of it, it isn't the worst of his mistake.  The fact is, Jessica was _his_ love, not Finch’s.  He was the one who should’ve cared for her, who should've been there to protect her, not Finch. 

Reese was the one who went a bit nuts and abandoned her, who lost perspective (or was it his mind?) more than once.  He left her twice, after all.  The first time to join the CIA, then a second time when he ran into her at that airport.  _Ask me to wait for you, and I will_.  Jessica gave him a second chance at love, something almost no one ever gets, and he blew it.  Threw it all away.  Decided twice that there were more important things than love, and that she'd be better off without him. 

What a complete, fucking _fool_ he'd been. 

He'd known long ago that he was the one who’d failed her.   It wasn't Harold.  The numbers had nothing to do with it -- he'd left Jessica behind before that.  The blame for not preventing her death still lay with him, would always be on his shoulders.  He never should’ve even asked Finch that question.  What had he been trying to do, shift his guilt onto Finch?

And what had Finch been trying to do, lying to him and trying to work a number all alone?

Eventually, with sadness and anger still sitting heavy on his shoulders, he wanders past a store selling exercise equipment.  A big, heavy black punching bag hangs in its front window.  Its bright red logo catches his eye, a flag waved in front of a maddened bull.  Almost before he knows it, he’s bought it and an exercise mat to put under it, and paid extra for immediate delivery.  A cab ride later, and he’s back at his new loft.  A few minutes more and the bag's been delivered and he's got it hung securely, and his usual dark suit exchanged for more comfortable sweats and a tank top. 

He takes his earpiece out, turns off his phone, wraps his hands and pounds on the bag until sweat pours down his arms, his back, his face.  The violence is glorious, merging with his weariness somehow, until he drifts outside himself to a place where nothing exists but the rhythmic pounding and the ripple of force through his hands from each blow.  It’s like a long, drawn-out fight, violence turned into a kind of meditation.  As he hits the bag over and over, the vast, frozen mass of rage inside him begins to shrink at last.  The grief, regret and fury that’s weighed him down for days finally lifts.  He punches the bag until he’s weaving, almost staggering, until his arms and shoulders ache, until his knuckles split and bleed.

It’s almost, almost enough.  Despite his exhaustion, he feels much lighter, at least in spirit.

Then someone knocks on his door. 

Reese swings toward it automatically, surprised, eyeing the gun he keeps hidden near the door.  No one knows he’s here except the guy who just delivered his bag --

 _And Finch_.

Of course.  Reese shakes his head wryly.  Knowing him, even after their little talk on that bench, he's probably still worried.  Worried that Reese blames him for Jessica's death, or maybe that he isn't quite sane yet.  Reese can't blame him for that.

Or maybe he just wants to know what I think of my new place, he tells himself wryly.

Or maybe it isn't really Finch at all.  Reese straightens up and swipes the sweat from his eyes.  On his way to the door, he picks up his hidden handgun just in case.  Old habits are hard to break.  Before he gets to his door, whoever it is knocks again.  The knock is firm but not overly loud, as if whoever's there doesn't want to draw attention.  Reese smiles in spite of himself. That's got to be Finch.  A glance out of the peephole in his door confirms it. 

He hesitates, not really sure he’s ready to talk to him yet.  Not without the barrier between them of another number to work on, anyway.  It’s not that he hasn’t forgiven Finch yet.  He did that even before he came back here -- about Jessica, at least.  Pounding the bag helped him start to get rid of the rest of it, his anger about being lied to.  He thinks he understands, at least a little, why Finch did it.  All that crap about “sensitivities” was geek-speak to cover the fact that Harold probably just wanted to spare him pain on his birthday. 

Reese feels embarrassed, now, at how hard he was on Finch during Sarah's case.  Though Finch should've trusted him to handle it, in retrospect he can see that Finch's worries weren't completely unjustified either.  He'd handled it, but not well.  He hadn't been very professional about it.  He'd let his feelings get the best of him, let the rage and pain Sarah Atkins’ plight roused in him interfere with his judgment.  When he’d told Harold to get out of the car so he could go after Jennings, he’d actually been so pissed off, he'd let a bit of his old self look out at him.  The eyes of the monster who used to torture people for hours, for days, without remorse. 

He’d scared Harold, just to get him out of the car a bit faster.  He’d made Harold think, just for a few seconds, that he might turn that ruthlessness loose on him -- that he might hurt him.  It was a lie, and worse, Reese had used a side of himself he never wanted Harold to see, to sell it.  He despises himself for that.  Finch had only lied to spare him pain, but Reese had lied to cause it, to scare the hell out of Finch.  So who'd really fucked up the most? 

No matter what, he would never hurt Harold.  He wonders if Finch will ever really trust him again, though.  It's one thing to know about Reese's past in an abstract way, on paper, or to hear shots and knee-capping over an earpiece.  It's quite another to be face to face with the killer inside of Reese. 

“Mr. Reese!”  His name’s a bit muffled through the door, but he hears it, and it’s definitely Finch’s voice.  Reese turns to lay the gun down, trying to decide if he should let him in.  He's really tired and his self control is shot, and he's already made one terrible mistake when he was out of control.  He doesn't want to make another.

While he's wavering, Finch knocks again.  This time he hears him say, with a mixture of worry and exasperation, “ _Mr. Reese!  Please!_ ”

Reese lays his forehead against the door, trying to fill his lungs with air.  Trying to find the calm he’s going to need to face Finch, now that he realizes he treated him badly.  It doesn’t work, but he decides to let Finch in anyway.  He’s never been good at resisting Harold when he’s worried about him.  That was part of what had knocked him off balance so badly while he tried to help Sarah Atkins – knowing that Harold thought he couldn’t handle it.  Some of his anger had to do with Jessica, but he wonders if some of it was just wounded pride and -- that other thing.  The one he's been trying not to think about.  That thing that's probably the real reason why he'd felt so betrayed by Finch's lie, and so alone on that drive to Mexico, too. 

 _That thing_ is also a really good reason not to open his door.  But it’s the reason he’s going to.  He finally opens it, still breathing heavily, trembling a little and covered with sweat.

When Finch sees him, his eyes widen.  He must be concerned at the state John’s in, because he limps past him without waiting for an invitation.  Reese smiles wryly.  If Finch forgets his manners, it's a sure sign that he's upset. 

“Come on in, Finch.  Make yourself at home.”  Guilt makes that sound rougher, more sarcastic than he meant it to.

Finch turns to face him, his mouth set unhappily.  “I apologize if I'm intruding, Mr. Reese –”

Reese shakes his head.  “You're not.”

Still breathing hard from his workout and unsure what else to say, he tries for his usual stoic kind of blankness, not letting anything show on his face or in his eyes.  He's trying not to scare Finch again -- not with his expression anyway.  He knows his new heavy bag, bloody, swollen hands and sweat-soaked clothes are telling tales to Finch's observant gaze as it is.  So he keeps quiet, just waiting to hear whatever Finch came here to say. 

Finch takes a deep breath.  Nerving himself up for something, Reese realizes.  To his surprise, Harold says haltingly, “Mr. Reese, I --”  And then, as if words have finally failed him, he just moves closer and slowly reaches out for Reese's hand.  He looks nervous but determined, and something else John can't quite define.  Reese frowns at him, wondering what he's doing.  Does Finch want to see what he's done to his hands, or is he --

All at once, Reese puts it together and turns cold.  Finch hasn’t bothered to ask him what’s wrong, why he's all bloodied and sweaty though they're not working a number.  Finch hasn't asked because _he already knows_.

Finch isn't here because Reese just pounded the fuck out of his new punching bag.  Reese took his earpiece out and made sure his phone was turned off before he started, so Finch couldn’t listen in, so he wouldn't know what he was doing.  Finch is here because of what they said on that bench, and what they didn't say.  Because he's afraid that maybe the answer he gave Reese about Jessica didn’t satisfy him.  Or because he’s afraid that the memories their last number stirred up might drive Reese to do something far worse than work out on a heavy bag.

 _And Finch was afraid of that before I ever met Sarah Atkins_.      

It rocks Reese a little.  He'd been so focused on what he'd perceived as Finch's lack of trust on her case and his lie, that he'd missed the bigger picture -- the reason for them.  Finch knows him really well now, too.  Well enough to predict his behavior on the deepest levels.

Sure, Finch had bragged about that from the start:  _I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese_.  But back then, it hadn't bothered Reese much, because he'd known it wasn't true.  All Finch had were facts and figures.  Dry, partial reflections of him from files and grainy video footage.  Reese was a man who’d walked in shadows for years by then, whose life was based on deception and pretense.  He'd shifted shape so often, slipped in and out of false identities so much that sometimes even he wasn't sure who he really was.  All Finch's research into his background could give him was a shadow, a story, a faint echo of Reese, like the urban legend about “The Man in the Suit.”  Reese knew from experience that even a detailed background on someone was a far cry from knowing them well enough to know how they'd react before they did it.  He’d known Finch didn’t really have him figured out like he claimed to back then, because he was so often surprised or alarmed at what Reese said and did.

Reese had liked that, liked knowing that Finch wasn’t as omniscient as he imagined.  That no matter how much he’d read about his past, Finch didn’t know him as well as he thought he did.  He didn’t want Finch or anyone else to know him that well anymore.

It's alarming to realize that Finch knows him that well now.  Well enough to read him like that, _anticipate_ him like that -- even about the things he tries the hardest to conceal.  Reese has learned to fear that kind of understanding.  Not so long ago, he’d’ve killed anyone who could see into him that deeply.  His former partner always used her perceptiveness against him, turned insight into a switchblade she'd carve him up with at will.  Sometimes he still feels echoes of the pain of that, the shame and helpless fury Kara Stanton had made him feel when she'd mocked and taunted him. 

His sudden realization that Finch could now hurt him like that too makes him flinch and back away instinctively, before Finch’s outstretched hand can touch him.  “No,” he grates, shaking his head in denial, though he already knows it’s true.

Finch falls silent, withdrawing his hand, looking baffled and disappointed.  Reese knows he doesn’t understand why he pulled away, but he won't let himself believe it's hurt that he sees in Harold's blue eyes.  Reese slowly regains control, his breathing evening out in the awkward silence that falls between them.  But he sets his jaw, angry with himself.  He just made another mistake, the kind he didn't want to make.  The kind that reveal his emotions.  Stanton would’ve seized on it, zeroed in on it like a damn heat-seeking missile.  He knows Finch is too smart to miss its significance either, that he won't let it alone, and he doesn't. 

“While I understand that you're upset, I'd appreciate it if you could tell me why, Mr. Reese.”  It's classic Finch:  the wry, careful choice of words, spoken with a kind of baffled exasperation at his failure to understand his partner.

But Reese figures that exasperation is just pretense, because Finch knows exactly what this is all about.  He just shakes his head again stubbornly.  “I’m fine.” 

That’s a lie.  He's messed up, feeling wary of Finch and pissed off at him, yet grateful too, and guilty about how he treated him.  He's too tired to make sense of the whole confusing mess.  But he knows he doesn’t want to be soothed or comforted.  After what he did to Harold, almost blaming him for Jessica's death, scaring him, then flinching away from him like a coward, he doesn’t fucking deserve it.  Or maybe he just doesn't want Finch to try, because he lied to him.

But Finch persists.  “What's wrong?  Is the apartment not to your liking?  Because I can find another --”

“No!” Reese says hastily.  He can't let Finch believe he's ungrateful for that.  “No, the apartment's fine,” he adds quickly.  “It's _amazing_ , Finch.  It's --” _too good for me_ , he almost says.  But he’s remembered the reflexes he developed with Kara now, and this time, he catches himself before he reveals anything personal.  “It means a lot.  I don't really know how to thank you.” 

Reese would say more, express his gratitude better, but he can't summon the words.  He’s finally got what he wanted.  A fog is spreading through his head, lulling him, wrapping his fear and sharp edges in cotton.  He’s so tired, so bone-deep exhausted suddenly that if Finch weren’t there, he’d probably sink down onto the floor and sleep right where he's standing.  As it is, it’s all he can do to stay on his feet.  He’s got no energy left to deal with Finch or the way they've screwed things up between them lately.

“There's no need to thank me,” Finch says, and there's a brittle note in his voice that gets Reese's attention.  “I -- the truth is, I came here to apologize, Mr. Reese,” he adds, looking down at the floor, his face reddening.  “I didn't mean to lie to you the other day.  I didn't expect you to come in so early, and --”

“So you lied to me, and then used my birthday gift as an excuse to get me out of the library, so you could work a number without me.  Not very festive of you, _Harold_.”  Reese's voice is low, mocking, sharp as the wound that's been festering inside him.

Finch pales at the bitterness in it, at the cold look in Reese's eyes.  “No.  No, it wasn't.”  He swallows hard, and Reese suddenly sees the anxiety Finch is trying to conceal.  “I'm sorry.  I didn't want to lie to you, Mr. Reese,” he says again, his blue eyes painfully earnest, his mouth twisted unhappily, everything about him so steeped in regret that Reese believes him instantly.  “I just -- I wanted your birthday to be just that:  festive.  _I wanted to give you new associations_ ,” he blurts, the words blurring together in a rush. 

Finch only talks like that when something touches him deeply, and he wants desperately for Reese to understand it.  Though the term ''associations'' seems vague, Finch is never imprecise in his speech.  Reese considers the word more carefully.  Associations, connections…  He thinks of how Finch knew that getting involved with Sarah Atkins' case would reopen old wounds on his birthday, and what he'd tried to give him instead.  Friendship, gifts, a new home, a sense of belonging...  _Positive_ a _ssociations_ , Reese thinks, understanding spreading slowly through his tired mind.  He'd thought Finch had meant to spare him pain, but it'd been more than that.  “You were trying to give me new memories,” he says, a slow, warm sensation stealing through him.  “Better ones.”

Finch looks so relieved at his understanding that he sags a little.  “ _Yes_.”

Finch hadn't wanted him to be thinking of his past, of death and a lover who he couldn't save on his birthday.  They may be vigilantes on a suicide mission, but Harold is trying to help him make the most of whatever time they have.  He wants Reese to feel blessed by his present, rather than cursed by his past. 

 _Aww, Harold._   The last of Reese's anger melts away in a warm tide of affection.  “Okay.  Thanks, Harold,” he says at last.  He knows it's inadequate, but he's too tired to summon up words for all that, for what it means to him.  He hopes Finch will hear the apology in it anyway.

He seems to.  He smiles, and maybe it's just Reese's imagination, but it looks a bit more real, a bit happier than Finch's usual, barely there quirk of the lips.

But then Finch’s smile fades away.  He turns serious again, his eyes searching Reese's; and Reese braces himself, or tries to.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t – that _we_ couldn’t save her, John.” 

 _Fuck._   Harold doesn't just wish he'd saved her, he wishes they could've done it _together_.  That hurts on so many levels, it freezes John where he stands.  Finch's voice is quiet, but his words pierce right through the fog in his head, make Reese close his eyes in an even deeper flinch.  His eyes suddenly burn like torched sockets in his tired, aching skull.  He knows Finch is trying to reach out to him, but it's all been too much.  These past few days, the ghosts they stirred up, his conflict with Finch, his new apartment, and now this.  Finch's unexpected visit, his earnest, awkward kindness and John's realization of just how deep Finch's understanding of him now goes...  Reese feels naked, stripped, exposed.  Not by cruelty this time, but by kindness and compassion.  It's unexpected and bewildering.  He has no defense against it, and it's weird to think that for once, he doesn't even need one.  If it were anyone but Finch, he'd make him leave.  Or if he weren’t so fucking exhausted, maybe he'd make him want to stay --

 _Get out_ , he wants to tell him, but he can’t.  His weariness, his bloody, aching hands, his feeling of being overwhelmed --none of it is Finch’s fault.  _She_ _wasn’t._ And Finch is only trying to help him.  Trying in his awkward, geeky way to somehow staunch the wounds he clearly thinks have never stopped bleeding inside of Reese.  John swallows hard, blinking sweat out of his eyes (or is it?), knowing Finch isn’t entirely wrong about that.  Or right, either.

Reese wishes he could tell Finch the truth.  That finding someone like him – someone good, someone he can believe in and rely on -- has done more to heal him than anything else ever could.  But once you’re shattered that completely, nothing will ever put you back together again.  Not the way you once were, anyway.

 _Nothing_ …

But nothing is no longer all he has.  Some of the cracks in his heart and mind are sealed now.  Healed and whole, thanks to Finch.

Still, some will always remain.  But that's okay, because Reese hopes maybe those cracks, those old wounds taught him something.  That they're helping him make better choices now.  He thinks, or he _hopes_ he's learned not to devalue love or run from it now, whatever form it takes, and however much it terrifies him.  And it does.  Love scares him like nothing else can, because it almost destroyed him.  But he's still here.  He had his chance to run (he's had hundreds), but once again, he turned the car around in Mexico and didn't take it.

That doesn’t mean this is easy for Reese, all the same.  He doesn't know how to tell Finch any of that.  He hasn’t had words for true things, deep things like that for a long time.  He did once, but the CIA cut them out, removed them from his vocabulary.  He knows every dark nuance of pain, torture and death now.  Every word for suffering.  Kara and Snow had burned them all into his brain.  They'd taught him so well, he found it hard to talk about comfort, affection or love anymore.

“Don’t,” he whispers, clenching his bleeding fists, just a hair away from pleading with Finch to stop, to let this go.  Reese can’t take one more surprise, one more pain tonight.  Finch was right about Sarah Atkins' case, too – it dredged up the past for him, brought back the emptiness, the bite of that wintry wind that had once nearly frozen him to death.  He doesn’t want to feel that bad anymore.  He’s not sure he can even take any more of Finch’s caring, which messes him up in a different way. 

But Finch doesn’t give him a choice.  He limps forward and lays a warm hand on his forearm.  “Mr. Reese,” he says once more, very quietly.  “ _John_ …”

There's affection in his voice, and worry, entreaty and God knows what else in his blue eyes.  Stanton would never have done such a thing.  Didn't have it in her.  But Finch does, and Reese shudders at that one simple touch, at the way Harold whispers his name.  At the courage in it, after the way he’d looked at Harold a few days ago.  He could break him in two so easily, and Finch knows it.  He’s always known it.  But scared though he was in that car, he’s still not hesitating to offer an apology and comfort now.  Finch is so much braver than he’ll ever be, and the soldier in Reese admires that.  Respects it, like he’s respected few people in his life.  The rest of him just _wants_ it, wants Harold.  Harold's small, steady hand makes John shiver all over in denial, in longing, in need.  He doesn’t understand it.  He'll never understand how this one small, socially awkward, brilliant, badly injured man can have such power over him, without even trying –

But Finch does.  And he wields it so gently, more gently than any boss or handler Reese has ever dreamed of.  He never expected that of Finch.  Reese knows that he's got a ruthless side, too.  People don’t get to be billionaires without one.  He'd figured from the start that Finch hired him not just for his skills, but also because he had no ties.  No family or friends left to wonder where he was, no one to care when he got killed.  Finch chose him for his private crusade because he thought Reese was expendable.  Reese hadn't minded.  Hell, he'd seen himself that way, had been trying to die when Finch found him. 

But to his surprise, Finch has never been ruthless to him.  Arch and irritable, even snide on occasion, but never cruel.  And whatever his motives for hiring Reese, Finch doesn't treat him like he's expendable either.  Quite the contrary.  Harold is usually kind and generous, worries about Reese when he's in danger, and has even patched Reese up sometimes when he gets hurt.  On one memorable occasion, Finch even risked his own life to save him.

Finch is nothing if not mysterious.  Reese knows he'd never have developed _that thing_ if he wasn't.  He’s always loved a challenge.

And after years of assuming false identities, Reese understands, better than most, just how changeable people can be.  He thinks neither of them expected they'd become friends; and they sure as hell never dreamed it might become even more than that.

Finch still has no idea what his gentleness does to John or why his words, his looks, his touch can split John open, lay him bare, make him flinch -- make him _need_.  Not surprising, when it took John a long time to admit it to himself, and he’s worked really hard at hiding it, and Harold sucks at spotting when others are attracted to him.

He's not Kara, Reese reminds himself.  He forces himself to stand still for Finch this time, not to flinch or pull away.  He’s practically trembling with exhaustion and his eyes still burn.  But he forces them open and lets Harold see him, sweaty clothes, bloody hands, damaged heart and all. 

“Let me help you, John,” Harold pleads, his own voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.  “Please…”

Reese stares numbly down at him, at the small, square fingers that curl over his forearm.  He’s so used to violence, to giving and taking punches, that it feels almost unbearably good when Finch touches him like this.  He’s the only one in Reese's life who does it with such care, such gentleness.

John’s always shied away from calling it tenderness.  But he's so tired right now that it's harder to lie to himself, and Harold's light touch feels too good to be anything else.

When Reese doesn't pull away from him again, Finch gets bolder.  He lifts up one of Reese’s hands, his brows furrowing while he examines the blood on his knuckles, the damage he’s done to his fingers with the bag.  John’s pretty sure that’s the reason he reached for his hand in the first place, and can't decide if he's relieved or disappointed.  Harold’s lips thin as he looks him over, and John waits for the sort of prim disapproval that his injuries often seem to evoke in Finch.  A kind of stiffness that’s a thin cover for anger.  John’s never sure if it’s on his behalf, or partly because blood is messy, and Finch is so deeply fastidious.  In any case, the anger he’s resigned himself to doesn’t come.  This time, Harold’s eyes just look sad, so sad that Reese hesitates, and doesn't tell Finch _I can take care of it myself_ , even though he could.  He remembers what Finch once said to him:  _I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people._

Finch has an equally strong need to help people.  John can see it in his eyes now, how badly Harold wants to help him, even though this time he didn't get his injuries working the numbers.  This time, he did it to himself; but Finch doesn’t seem to care, or to care if Reese sees his reaction, either.  Finch so seldom lets him see what he’s feeling that warmth steals through John, disarming him.  He isn’t the only one letting something of his real self show here.  That rare reciprocity surprises him, easing his wariness.

He realizes then, he’s not furious anymore.  Not just with Finch, he already knew that, but with anyone.  The rage that’s been roiling in his gut since he found out about Finch’s deception and what Jennings had done to his own wife has finally run its course.  Disappeared.  Maybe it was the satisfaction of knowing that he'd put Jennings in a deep, dark hole he'll never get out of and freed his wife too, or the punishing workout he just had, or Finch’s apology.  Or maybe some magic in his touch finally banished his fury.  Or maybe Reese just doesn’t like carrying around such a heavy load of rage and pain anymore.  He doesn’t know, but however it happened, he’s glad his rage is gone.  He doesn’t like being furious with Harold; and he’s just so fucking tired…

“Okay,” he rasps, finally giving in.  Something about the way Finch is holding onto his hand seems to coax the word out of him, and all resistance too.  He's not flinching anymore.  Suddenly that thing he’s been hiding from himself surges to the fore, and he _wants_ Harold to touch him.  Craves it, like an addict burning for a fix.  But he manages to keep his mouth shut about that, too.  He'll get his fix secretly, while Finch tends to his hands.

Finch blinks up at him, surprise flickering in his eyes for a second.  Obviously, he didn't think Reese would give in.  “Come on then.”  He leads Reese over to his bed, and gestures for him to sit down. 

When Reese sits down on it, it feels so good, he doesn’t want to get up again.  Exhaustion is stealing over him, pressing him down into the bed.  But he realizes, he's a mess.  He's sweaty from his workout, and his hands are bloody.  He must reek.  “I should take a shower.” 

He tries to get up again, but Finch shoots him a look, and puts a hand on his shoulder to prevent it.  “I think that can wait,” he says dryly. 

Reese subsides, but Finch shoots a sharp look at him.  “What?”

Reese shrugs, unable to resist.  “Well, I’m just surprised that you think there's some higher priority than cleanliness, Harold.”

Finch lifts an eyebrow at him.  “Oddly enough, on some occasions, I do,” he shoots back.

“I gather this is one of those.”

Finch gives him an exasperated look.  “Since you may have done some damage to your hands, I’d say yes, it is.  Besides, there’s no one here you need to impress, Mr. Reese.” 

This feels so familiar.  Teasing, bantering, getting Finch a bit riled up, so he'll ruffle his feathers and peck at him…  This is what Reese missed, while he was away.  _This feels like home_.

Reese can’t resist flirting a little too.  He shoots a look up at Finch from under his lashes.  “I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am,” Finch says firmly, in a tone that somehow says, _You impressed me long ago, Mr. Reese._   _You can stop trying now._  

Reese grins to himself, though he's pretty sure he'll never stop trying that anyway.

“Stay here, please.  Just for a minute, while I get the supplies.  Then I'll tend to your hands.”

Reese blinks.  The supplies?  He keeps all sorts of medical supplies on hand wherever he goes, so he can patch himself up after fights, but he hasn’t brought them over from the cheap motel where he was staying yet.  What is Finch talking about?   

As he limps away, Reese realizes that as well as buying him an enormous bed, Harold must’ve also stocked the apartment with medical supplies himself -- just in case.  It's just one more way that Finch takes care of him, as if the apartment, the money he pays him and the amazing second chance he's giving him aren’t enough…

Reese waits, letting his head hang a little but trying not to lie down, not to fall asleep before Harold gets back.  Even though his new bed is wonderfully, temptingly soft underneath him, he wants to stay awake for what comes next.  He stares down at his hands through drooping eyelids, glad that his fingers have mostly stopped bleeding now.  He keeps them in his lap all the same.  He doesn't want to get blood on his new sheets, or his new bed.

 _Harold doesn't like messes_ …

Finch limps quietly back with a dark leather bag in his hands, which he must've stowed away in the bathroom. As he sits down next to John on the bed and opens the bag, he eyes John's wrapped, yet still bleeding hands.  “I would've thought,” he says wryly, “that you'd get enough of fisticuffs on the job, Mr. Reese.”

 _Fisticuffs._   John grins to himself again, but sits quietly and lets Finch take his bleeding hands and gently unwrap, clean and bandage them.  Only four of his knuckles are damaged enough to need that, even by Finch's standards.  If left to himself, Reese wouldn't have bothered. 

But that's just the thing -- for good or ill, he isn't alone anymore.  It's that, as much as anything, that brought him back here after he'd dropped Jennings off in Mexico.  He could've just kept driving.  In a weak moment, after he watched Mexican prison guards drag Jennings off to his cell, he'd even thought about it.  He'd screwed up, and he wasn't sure Finch would even want him back.  _You hired me to do this job, Finch.  If you don't like how I do it, hire someone else._

What if Finch already had?

Reese hadn't really believed he would, though -- not that fast.  He'd told himself that he had to go back and find out, anyway.  That he couldn't just abandon the numbers like that.  But as he watches Harold take out antiseptic wipes and start working on his fingers with careful concentration, as he sees the unaccustomed softness in his blue eyes, the fierce, mingled hunger and exhilaration that John feels make it clear who he really came back for. 

Not that he didn't know.  He thinks idly of how Fusco calls Harold “Mr. Glasses”.  Reese secretly thinks the nickname's cute, though he's not stupid enough to ever tell Finch that.  But he's been longing to take his glasses off and kiss Harold senseless for awhile now.  He’d do it right now, except the timing is wrong.  If he tried to kiss him now, when Harold knows he’s been pissed off at him, it would only confuse Harold and hurt his chances.  But damn, he wishes he could.

Soon, he promises himself.  They're vigilantes after all; and time is passing.

When Finch is finally finished, John’s hands throb and sting, but his bloodied knuckles are now disinfected, wiped clean and neatly covered by butterfly bandages. 

Reese wonders why he didn't bother to buy gloves and put them on before attacking his punching bag.  It crosses his mind that he might've been punishing himself just a bit, for scaring the hell out of Harold a few days ago.  Still, the careful, gentle way Finch just tended to his hands is what lingers in John's mind, not his own pain or guilt.

When Harold’s done, his gaze is still soft, and Reese is glad to see that he looks happier.  Like taking care of him, touching him, feels good to Harold too.

“Thanks, Finch.”

“Hmm.”  For a minute, Finch just looks oddly contented, looking down at Reese's hands.  Then he blinks, raises his eyes and gives Reese a sharp look, and the spell is broken.  “I trust you're through with your odd idea of fun for now,” he sniffs, radiating a mild disapproval which Reese is intimately familiar with.  He realizes, Finch is talking about his punching bag.  Then something about the way Finch's eyes linger, searching his, tells Reese he's talking about something else, too.

Reese smiles.  He's a man of few words himself, and he's always appreciated the way he and Finch have complex conversations while actually saying very little.  He gets that Finch is still worried about him, but he can put those fears to rest now. And say it obliquely, because he knows Finch will grasp his double meaning instantly. “Yeah,” he yawns back, stretching a little to ease his tired muscles.  “I'm all done with fun for now.”  

“Good.  Then lie down now, Mr. Reese,” Finch orders firmly, and John grins to himself, letting Finch's bossiness settle over him like a blanket.  “For the moment, you need to sleep more than a shower.  And this mattress should be quite comfortable.”

It's funny that Finch seems to think he has to talk him into lying down, when the truth is, Reese is about to topple over.  When he finally lays back on the bed, he finds that both his pillow and the mattress are really comfortable.  Knowing Finch, John's sure they cost far too much.  Still, he can’t resist teasing Finch a little more.  That just never gets old.  “Why, Harold.  Is that some sort of _proposition_?”

After a long, breathless moment while Harold’s blue eyes hold his, Harold finally smiles, a tiny, enigmatic smile.  “If it was, I’d think you would know, Mr. Reese.”

His answer's somehow evasive, fond and so very Harold all at the same time that John's captivated by it.  He also notices that Harold didn't really deny it, either -- instead, he _smiled_.  Oh, yeah -- there's hope, all right.  John tucks that warm little fact away in his tired head, so he can take it out and enjoy it later.  Look it over like the shiny thing it is, maybe smirk at it a little.  There's no one else like Finch in the whole world, he thinks fondly. 

For just a second, he lets himself imagine what being with him would be like:  brisk orders, sharp, witty repartee and merciless teasing; and underneath it all, Harold's hidden sweetness and gentle hands, like a secret only John will know.  Long hours in bed when there are no numbers, and he can bring Harold green tea and croquillants, then use his big hands to drive Harold crazy.  Fuck, but he wants that, more than he's let himself want anything in years.  Even though he's half asleep already, he can’t help but send a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile back at Harold, just thinking about it. 

To his surprise, Finch looks away, flushing a little.  Reese wonders if he let too much show in his eyes just then, but can't bring himself to regret it.  “I guess I should be going,” Finch says, picking up the bag and getting to his feet again.

Regret fills John.  They were so close; if he weren't so tired, he would've pushed it, maybe even--

“Don't go.  Stay,” he thinks.  “Just for a little while.”  He’s so surprised when he realizes he actually said that out loud that he instantly shuts up, embarrassed.

But Finch doesn't seem upset by his request.  He hesitates for a second, but then he gives in.  “Very well.”  He perches on the edge of the huge bed he bought for John again.  “Perhaps I’ll just stay until you fall asleep, if that's all right.”

“Sure.”  Reese smiles a little at that, wondering if it's something Harold's mom used to tell him.  It’s like something a parent would say, to a kid who’s afraid of the dark.  It’s so crazy, that Harold would say that to him -- that anyone would.  He's a murderer, an assassin, a torturer…  Like Kara once said:  _We're not walking in the dark, we **are** the dark._

But Reese isn’t that darkness, he's not that monster now.  These days, he tries not to kill unless he has to.  That's not who he is anymore.  And nothing is not all that he has…

He has so much now.  Finch and a new home, and friends.  And maybe the possibility of even more.  That thing neither of them are talking about -- at least not with words.

But their hands tell another story, Reese thinks, on the edge of sleep. Harold's hands told him just now that he still trusts him, that he still cares, despite the way John almost lost it on their latest case.  His relief is enormous.

Carter must've called him.  Told him I didn't kill Jennings, he thinks.  He hopes she did, anyway.  He's too tired to talk about it himself, and he doesn't want to even think about Jennings right now.

Instead he thinks about how Harold just blushed a bit, when he smiled at him.  That's a nice image to drift off to sleep on, so he closes his eyes.  He has to.  He’s so exhausted they've started to slide shut on their own anyway, whether he wants them to or not.  And since he’s not nearly as brave as Harold, he keeps them closed while he reaches out and fumbles for Harold’s hand.

“What…?” 

It’s more a tiny squeak of surprise than a protest from Finch, which reassures Reese.  What’s even better is, he thinks he finds Harold’s hand pretty fast because Harold reached out to him, too.  But he doesn't open his eyes to see.  He just folds his bandaged hand really gently around Harold’s small, strong fingers.  They feel good enfolded in his.  And they seem to be doing pretty well with hand signals lately, so he hopes Harold can somehow read this one.  Feel how sorry he is for that moment in the car when he scared him.  Maybe he can, because he doesn’t let go. 

It isn’t the first time Finch has held onto him.  He's done it from the beginning, in all sorts of ways.  It's why Reese has so much…

“Thanks,” he whispers, an odd lump in his throat.

“It’s nothing,” Harold says softly.  “Go to sleep now, John.”

Reese smiles.  Finch may not know it yet, but for once, he’s wrong.  It’s not 'nothing' at all.   Reese knows _nothing_ intimately.  He lived there for some time, and this isn't that cold, bleak place at all.  Finch has seen the very worst of him, seen the monster he was looking out of his eyes, and he still hasn't walked away.  He's still here, taking care of Reese.  That's not nothing, it's a very big something.  And it’s the opposite of nothing, how Finch's fingers fold into Reese’s so warmly, and how their lives are slowly but surely meshing together the same way.  It's so much more than nothing that John's been afraid to look at the bright, shining possibility of it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.  _That thing_ is more than hope, more than a second chance, even more than friendship. 

It’s _everything_.

And Reese's biggest mistake was letting go of hope, of golden possibilities, of everything once before.  He'll never be that stupid again.  He'll never terrify Finch like that again, either.  He knows that now.  For however long he’s got left, he wants to be worthy of all the gifts he's been given.  That's probably not possible, but John needs to try.  So although he's been angry and he's still a bit scared, he holds on to Harold's hand, even as sleep rolls over him.

John falls asleep smiling, because though Finch is probably just as scared, though they both have every reason to be, he can feel Harold holding on, too.

 


End file.
